


Tightrope Walk

by poisonandwine



Series: Tightrope Walk [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Dom Jim "Chief" Hopper, Don't copy to another site, Don't repost, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Grumpy Jim "Chief" Hopper, Hawkins (Stranger Things), Inspired by Stranger Things (TV 2016), Protective Jim "Chief" Hopper, Self Insert Weekend, Self-Insert, Slow Burn, Soft Jim "Chief" Hopper, Stranger Things (TV 2016) References, Уточнять у автора
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24732592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonandwine/pseuds/poisonandwine
Summary: Continued strange sightings at Skinwalker Ranch in Utah lead to dead-ends for reporter Jen Whitaker. That is until she finally gets a lead from a ridiculous tabloid that points her to Hawkins, Indiana. Could the legendary skin-walkers really be something far more nefarious from an alternate dimension? With the help of Hawkins' police chief, Jim Hopper, she may be able to solve decades of paranormal sightings that haunt her tiny town. (Story starts between seasons 1 and 2.)
Relationships: Jim "Chief" Hopper/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Tightrope Walk [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1788355
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Skinwalker Ranch

**Author's Note:**

> It's time for another self-indulgent fic! I hope you enjoy the start of this. This story starts between seasons 1 and 2, and I'm not sure where it'll go, so just know that for timing.

A sheet of stars illuminated the summer night sky in Utah. Far from the sunburst of streetlights and the vanity of a metropolitan fast life, the prairie lands felt like a ever-reaching void of darkness that twinkled under the moon and stars' glare. In a crop circle, shaped inside the cornfields of a lone ranch in Ballard, a creature stood over its prey—the sounds of splitting flesh and organs matched the rhythm of the creature's shoulders moving as it clawed further into the thing beneath it.

Its skin was textured like exposed muscle, somewhat slimy, and unsettling to behold. The farmhand pushed his dark hair out of his eyes and crept closer to see what kept the figure in-place. His steel-toed boots carefully navigated around the debris and folded corn stalks. He saw the remains of one of his boss' bulls splayed in front of the fleshy, unidentified animal. He gasped, covering his mouth with the scarf tied around his neck, and the creature stopped what it was doing—the faint sounds of goopy gnawing halted. It turned its head toward the farmhand, but instead of a face or eyes, it was a featureless oval. The farmhand's pulse quickened. Even in the dark of the night, the white of his eyes were on full display.

The creature—the _monster_ —turned its whole body towards the man. Its head opened to reveal a gaping mouth with rows of teeth that opened and closed like petals on a terrifying, carnivorous flower. A roar erupted from the belly of the monster, but the noise that came from its throat was nothing like the sounds of a lion or bear. The noise reverberated like an echo through the quiet crop circle's diameter. The echo stirred into a hollow growl. The growl grew into a cacophonous thunder like a murder of crows crying out in pain. 

Dirt clung to Jen’s face as she splashed water on her forehead and cheeks. The tiny apartment bathroom was a bland room, with a cheap toilet, cheap sink, hazy mirror, no counter space, and a bathtub with the shabbiest curtain hanging from a metal rail. It squeaked when she pulled the curtain; the sound made her skin crawl. 

The bathroom curtain was translucent and colored in a strange yellow and blue pattern. During an afternoon, not unlike this one, splotches of yellow, blue, and green smeared the walls. At sunset, it sparkled against the orange and pink hues of the sky, casting swatches of purple and red. It was one of the few times she didn’t mind being in there, just to see the warm colors as day fell. 

The sun peeked out of the narrow window positioned at the top of the only outside wall of the room. It stayed open and out of reach. Sounds from the road filled the air around her. It was a busy summer afternoon, with families out running errands and kids running around town on bicycles and skateboards. 

By the time Jen was done washing off the dirt and clay from her brow, the sink was coated in gunk. She looked at herself in the mirror and sighed. Her reflection was stained with streaks she could never clean off the glass, but she could tell she looked tired. Her round cheeks looked lifeless and devoid of their usual rosiness, her freckles were peeking through the freshly-scrubbed skin like dull specks against her pale skin. Her blue eyes looked greyer than normal, and she let her lids hang heavy from the mixture of frustration and exhaustion that always followed these kinds of assignments.

The better part of Jen’s day had been spent listening to an old man recount how he saw some strange animal sprint across his farm and devour one of his bulls. The farmland stretched far beyond what she could see from the stables, and the property stunk of decay. William McCallahan's story was dramatic, but the only evidence she had was the animal’s remains and a boot that he said belonged to a now-missing farmhand. She would have been more enthused by his recount of the previous night's events, but she had heard so many of McCallahan's wacky stories that the old man groaned whenever she answered his call. 

The farmer's horses—spooked by something none of them could see—stampeded across the property, interrupting his dramatic retelling. The way McCallahan turned red, and his eyes bulged out of his head, made Jen realize he likely hadn't slept in days. A naïve part of her interest piqued at the idea that something else could be causing him considerable distress each night, or that this was all the imaginative machinations of his frazzled mind. _Dementia? Alzheimer's?_ Her thoughts were undercut by the dirt and dust flying into her face from the galloping hooves. The horses sped past her and straight into their stable. She choked and inwardly cursed her editor for sending her to the ranch again. 

The men at _The Uintah Ledger_ were a condescending bunch to any women who dared to join the newspaper. If Jen wasn’t getting coffee for the other staffers, she was left to handle the paranormal sightings of some country bumpkin who insists he’s seen “a ton of aliens”. But he was hardly the first to occupy the land and claim such a thing. The ranch had a history of strange sightings dating back much further than McCallahan. It was a peculiar set of circumstances, and one she had a hard time ignoring. But until Jen could drag an alien carcass into the budget meeting room, she’d never get a story printed from his tales. As much as she wanted to believe McCallahan, just to shut up her editor, she knew it would take one hell of an angle.

The farmer watched her closely as she jotted down some notes, following his words closely. The livestock remains were flattened just a few feet away, and she tried not to focus on it or the smell. Two people from the sheriff's department were standing over the bull with looks of disgust, muttering to themselves. She imagined the forensics investigators would have fun trying to figure out this one. 

Her notes looked like a choppy mess in her shorthand dictation. They were made even harder to read through the dirt stains that clouded the pages. However, with some elaboration, the notes read as: 

> Date: July 17, 1984  
> Time: 14:45 MDT  
> Location: Skinwalker Ranch, Ballard, Utah
> 
> Figure spotted, Skinwalker Ranch approx 21:15 yesterday  
> Farmer William McCallahan  
> Some kind of wolf or bear  
> Got his 20-gauge shotgun, heard loud noise   
> Mutilated bull corpse found   
> Evidence had organs and blood expertly removed, with just skin and bones left  
> Bull costs $900, used for breeding  
> McCallahan filed over 20 reports, 10 included killed livestock... 

Jen stood in front of her apartment door, her finger mindlessly flicking at the corner of the page of her notepad. She read her notes once more and sighed. The details prattled on about the rest of the day’s events, but "Crazy animal attacks farmer's livestock" wasn't a thrilling headline. Even with police investigating the remains, and the potential for a missing farmhand, it wouldn’t be enough to persuade _The Uintah Ledger_ to let her write the story. She knew her dick of an editor would need proof. She shoved the notes in her bag, grabbed her keys, and left the apartment. 

A breeze swept past Jen as she stood outside, leaning against the brick apartment building. It was a comfortable 70-degrees, but the chill from the wind knocked another 5 degrees from that. The sun hung proudly above her, daring to stain her skin pink. Her red hair was pulled up into an untidy bun, and small flecks of dirt fell out of the tresses that insisted on loosening out of place. She took a deep breath to try to calm her nerves. She still had to head back into the office and talk to her editor, Jack Killowack. 

“Hey, Jen,” a voice from beside her said. She followed the voice with a turn of her head and saw Scott Carlson approaching her with a bag of groceries in his arms. Scott was tall and blonde with hazel eyes. The clay stained white t-shirt and worn jeans told her he had just finished another day helping construct the new supermarket the town was promised. 

“Afternoon,” she replied with a smile. “Your day looks as messy as mine.” 

“As always.” He shrugged, stopping to lean against the brick wall with her and letting the bag drop between his feet. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “How’d the story go?” 

She groaned, wishing he hadn’t asked. 

“That bad, huh?” 

She groaned again and leaned her head against the wall. 

“You gotta tell Jack to suck a dick,” he replied. 

“I don’t want to give him any ideas,” she said, shaking her head.

Scott chuckled. “Well, let me say it.” 

Jen tilted her head towards him and cocked an eyebrow. “ _You’d_ enjoy that too much.”

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for square jaws,” he replied with a smirk. 

"I just know something weird is going on over there," Jen said, tilting her head back against the wall and closing her eyes. "It sounds stupid, but I don't think McCallahan would waste this much of his own time for a joke. I just wish I could get harder evidence and convince the paper of it."

"At this point, I'm surprised you aren't staking out the place at night to see for a picture of the rabid bear."

"McCallahan would have to get comfortable with strangers on his property overnight first. And I'm not looking to get shot by his 20-gauge." Jen sighed. "I’ll report back on what Killowack says, and you can threaten him after he’s laughed at me for the twentieth time." 

“Deal,” he teased and picked up his groceries. “Call me if you need me to come kick his ass.” He kissed her on the cheek, and she smiled. 

“My hero,” Jen called out. She could hear his footsteps fading through the doors and down the hall. She kicked off of the wall with her foot and took her time walking down the street to the office. 

Jack Killowack always pursed his lips when he read. Not just Jen’s notes but anyone’s. She hated watching him read, but she had to stand there while he scanned the notepad. 

He tossed it down on his oak desk. It was cherry-stained and more expensive than three months of her rent. It matched the luxurious life Jack tried to live on his small town paper salary. He had a streak of grey hair that cut through his fading, brown hair. And, of course, a strong, square jaw. In any other circumstance, Jen might be able to see what Scott sees in Jack. Unfortunately, her editor was the most repugnant man she knew, so everything he did made him seem more like an ogre. 

The rest of the newspaper office wasn’t as high class as the editor’s desk. It had the same run-of-the-mill filing cabinets, same tables, same chairs, same white walls, same piles of papers, same exhausting presence of oppressive men. Any time she had to enter the building, she felt part of her soul leave her body. 

Jack stared at Jen, and she could already feel _it_. It was becoming a sixth sense. Chills ran over her arms just before he started to chuckle—hollow as his personality. He shook his head. “If you think I’m printing that dribble, you’re out of your mind, Whitaker.” 

“I’m not expecting you to do anything with it,” she replied with a biting tone. 

“Ooh,” he replied, sucking in a small breath. “Spicy.” 

“You told me you wanted me to go on this assignment and share my notes. So, I did. What do you want?” Jack laughed some more, and Jen felt her cheeks turning red. She was ready to explode. “You could at least admit that the story is strange.” 

“Of course it’s strange! It’s a farmer blatherin' about some monsters on his property that he never sees up close but somehow he _knows_ are there.” He wiggled his hand in the air like a playful ghoul. 

“I know it looks insane, but it _keeps_ happening. The cops are investigating it now.” 

“That’s routine, Whitaker.” He smirked. 

“Well, give me something else, then!” she replied, louder than she expected. 

He leaned back in his cushioned chair and played with the pen on his desk, twirling it in his fingers. “I’m sorry, cupcake,” he replie. “But I just can’t let you take on the big stories yet.” 

She tried to ignore the pet name, but the withering stare she had fixated on the man was hardly missed. “And why’s that?” 

“I can’t have women gettin' all filthy with the tough stories around here,” he said letting the pen fall on his desk. “Can you imagine what they’d say if I treated you like that?” 

She cocked an eyebrow. “I’m already covered in dirt every time you send me out to that stupid farm, how’s this any different?” 

“You’re just not ready, what can I say?” 

Jen slammed her palms down on Jack’s desk. “Fuck you, Killowack,” she spat and shoved her pad back in her bag. “Find someone else to jerk around.” She left the building quickly, her adrenaline fueling her out the door. 

On the sidewalk, she looked up to the yellowing sign that read _The Uintah Ledger_ and grimaced. She was so sick of this town, the _Ledger,_ and the dead-end stories. She didn’t want to be a writer this way. Killowack just wanted to humiliate her and use her as a distraction to keep McCallahan from calling him personally. 

The front door to Jen’s apartment slammed shut, rattling a loose frame from the wall, but she didn’t care. The bulk of her apartment had only flashes of color from the meager excuses for decor she had scattered around. The rooms were narrow and alternated between pale, wooden panels and faded wallpaper. The kitchen only fit a refrigerator, stove, and a sink that took up half of the available counter space. She had a small card table shoved into the corner that was always covered in coffee stains and papers. 

Jen walked past the table and remembered the stack of mail tipping over on itself. She ran her hand over the pile, fanning it out to see what was there. Nothing interesting aside from a pile of tabloid magazines with varying headlines. She hated tabloids, but she had them mailed when she started covering the less desirable stories in town. Skinwalker Ranch wasn’t the only place in Utah, or even the country, that claimed to be a magnet for strange phenomena. 

The tabloids that week mostly covered Princess Di and Elvis. But the top fold of one caught her eye: “Kidnapping, Death Cover-Up, and Evil Science: Hawkins, Indiana”. The paper wasn’t stand-out from the others in her pile; all it had going for it was the ridiculous headline that for once had nothing to do with celebrity culture. The paper was thin, the images were faded. The headline took up half of the top-fold. She pulled out the tabloid and thumbed through the pages to find the story. 

> Hawkins, Ind., is a small town. It’s population rests at 30,000 people, and nothing ever happens there. For those wanting a life outside of the city, Hawkins would normally be a place of respite. But that all changed in November of last year. 
> 
> The fall of 1983 was temperate and pleasant. Children rode their bicycles through the streets of Hawkins, and for many, the thrills of Halloween had just ended. Not for William Byers, however, who went missing early November and pronounced dead one week later. But was he dead? 

Jen stared at the printed text in disbelief, her eyes narrowing. She chewed on her bottom lip as she continued reading.

> The boy’s body was found in the Hawkins quarry. The funeral was planned and executed. A mother and brother mourned. So why is Byers still in town and above ground? One source says the entire thing was a cover-up from the Hawkins National Laboratory. This lab is known for its work with the U.S. Department of Energy, but rumor has it that inside its doors are confidential and highly experimental projects. 
> 
> Our source claims to have worked inside the Hawkins National Laboratory years ago, when the lab was a host for Project MKUltra. That’s right, the very same MKUltra we’ve talked about in previous issues. Helms may have thought he buried those documents, but MKUltra is real, and its roots run deep. 
> 
> If the Hawkins National Laboratory can resurrect a boy from the grave, imagine what else they can do? Byers is just one clue in a larger governmental conspiracy, our source says. 

Jen skimmed the rest of the story, but it only did what tabloids do best: postulate. Further into the story were fuller descriptions of power surges, festering crops, brutalized livestock, and strange sightings of unidentifiable creatures across town. 

> “The power failures in Hawkins are just getting worse,” one resident of Hawkins, Ind., says. “That damn lab is doing something strange. I heard they even somehow infected acres of crops in those farms up the road. They’re coming for the whole town.” 

Her mind was reeling. In a desperate grab for something tangible to throw back in Killowack's face, she dug up the rest of her notes from her previous trips out to Skinwalker Ranch. The shorthand handwriting was melting off of some of the pages from the summer heat; her handwriting worsened with each trip. Still, she could make out the remnants of the stories McCallahan and his farmhands told: skin-walkers, or wolves, skulking across the property at night; livestock gone missing; mutilated wildlife found on the outskirts; power surges flickering through the fields and setting off sparks at the power lines the government insisted on putting up; the looming NASA laboratory with men visiting the property after each report. She dropped her notes down onto the table and grabbed the corded phone hooked to the wall. She dialed a memorized number and closed her eyes, trying to sort out what she wanted to do with this information. 

“This is Scott," the man on the other end answered. 

“Scott, it’s Jen,” she said. 

Scott put his bottle of beer down and sat down in the armchair next to the red rotary phone on his glass end table. “Is it time for me to finally make a move on Jack?” he asked. 

Jen laughed. “Yeah, go for it. I quit.” 

“What?” 

“I quit. He said he wasn’t willing to give me any better stories, and he just called McCallahan loony.” 

"McCallahan is loony." When Jen didn't reply, Scott felt a twinge of guilt for the joke. “I’m so sorry, Jennifer," he replied with a soft voice. 

She breathed out slowly—the sound of her full first name gave her some comfort. “I suppose I have more free time now," she said.

He chuckled. “What are you going to do with it?” 

She tapped her finger against the phone’s receiver. Her eyes wandered to the tabloid slipping off the table. “I think I’m going to Indiana.” 

“What do you mean you’re going to Indiana? What’s in Indiana?” 

“I found a better story.”

“Better than mutilated bulls?” 

“I think it’s connected.” 

Her friend sighed, and she clutched the receiver harder, anticipating some kind of protest. “Please don’t get yourself into trouble out there,” he said. “That’s like a full day’s drive for me.” 

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “I promise I’ll call when I get there.” 

Hawkins was the idea of a small town, but it was hardly as small as Ballard. It was what the movies made small town America look like with charming neighborhoods, local markets, and schools full of bright-eyed children. Indiana felt familiar, without acres of prairie land separating her from the nearest general store. 

It had taken a day longer than Jen expected to drive there, but the stops to rest were worth it. She parked at Bradley’s Big Buy and approached a woman who was ushering her teenage daughter into the car with bags of produce. Jen hardly had to question the mother long before she revealed she knew the Byers. “Everyone does,” she said with a perky nod. Probably too willingly, the woman offered Jen directions to their home. The reporter thanked the woman and helped her shut her now-stuffed trunk of groceries. 

Not that far down the road was the Byers’ house. The structure looked worn. Jen stood on the front porch and knocked on the door. Outside, she noted a 1980 Chevrolet K5 Blazer with “Hawkins Police Dept.” on the side and a siren system on the top; a pale Schwinn bicycle with a large light and thick tires covered in dirt; and a green 1976 Ford Pinto with two Coca Cola bottles in the passenger seat. Her faded red 1978 Ford Fiesta hardly stood out amongst the rest of the scraps of metal in the driveway.

No one answered the door right away, but she heard a woman’s voice call out to give her a moment. Jen’s hair hung down past her shoulders, laying in curls that she could barely control in the Indiana humidity. Her clothes were plain—cuffed jeans, dirty canvas sneakers, and a loose, grey t-shirt. The most interesting piece of her outfit was perhaps the leather bag thrown across her body. She took it to every assignment; the dirt that scuffed the outside told a story of its own. She probably wouldn’t appear as a professional reporter looking the way she did, but she hoped her casual attire would welcome an honest conversation. 

When Joyce Byers opened the door, she was confused when she saw a stranger standing in front of her. Her short, brown hair hung in waves by her neck; her jeans and shoes were casual and worn out; her maroon top hung loose on her petite frame. Joyce looked comfortable—she wasn’t the mother Jen expected to come to the door. She certainly wasn’t like the prim and proper woman from the grocery store with teased hair and strong perfume. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Hi. Are you selling something?” Joyce asked. 

The reporter smiled. “I hope you don’t mind, I got your address from Mrs. Albright,” she said. “The name’s Jennifer Whitaker. You can call me Jen.” She held out her hand. 

A tall figure lurked behind Joyce, somewhere deeper in the house. She could just barely see their shape. The woman smiled and stuck out her hand. “I’m Joyce Byers. Was there something you needed me for?” 

“I was hoping you could help me understand some strange happenings recorded here in Hawkins. I am a reporter for _The Uintah Ledger_ —” 

“—I don’t think I’ve heard of that one,” Joyce interrupted. Her demeanor shifted to more alert. 

Jen smiled. “I just got into town from Utah…Anyway,” she continued, fishing through her bag, “I read a story about Hawkins in a tabloid, and it felt awfully familiar to what I’ve been trying to report from Ballard.” 

She handed the tabloid clipping to Joyce who eyed it with a worried expression. She looked around the porch and gently grabbed Jen’s arm, pulling her inside. “Oh, come in! Let’s get you out of the heat,” she said.

When Jen stepped inside, the air condition pushed through her like a dunk in ice water. She hadn't realized just how uncomfortably hot she had become since breaching the summer atmosphere in Indiana. Inside the home, Jen was met with a slightly unshaven police officer, who looked anything but friendly. His uniform was traditional and khaki, and his build was tall and strong. The officer was so tall, Jen had to look up to see his face. She wondered how much of a neck strain that had to have been for Ms. Byers, who stood at a similar height to the reporter. The man hovered beside Joyce, reading over the tabloid clipping in her hand. They stood in silence before he looked back at Jen with a frown. “Where did you get this?” 

Jen read his badge before answering him: Hawkins Police Chief Jim Hopper. “Officer Hopper—”

“—Stick to 'Chief' or 'Hopper'.” 

She nodded. “Well, _Hopper_ , I don’t know how much you know about Utah. But we’re big on conspiracy theories. Because I’m new to the paper, I’m usually assigned stories about UFO sightings and curses. I found your town’s story when reading through some headlines,” she pointed to the tabloid, still clutched in a very attentive Joyce’s hands, “and it piqued my interest. If what’s happened here is anything like Skinwalker Ranch, it might—”

“—What the hell is Skinwalker Ranch?” Hopper asked. 

“Language!” Joyce reprimanded the officer, slapping him in the stomach with the clipping. A young boy stepped into the room. 

The officer spotted the boy behind him and smirked. “Sorry, Joyce.” 

“Mom?” the child called out. 

“Hi there! I’m Jen,” the reporter replied. She held her hand out to the boy who took it and smiled. 

“I’m Will.”

“Nice to meet you.” 

Will Byers was thin with sunken eyes. His hair was cut almost in a bowl cut that framed his angular jaw. Jen worried he had seen a ghost just before entering the room, given his pallor. 

“There’s not much we can say about this…” Joyce said, her glance moving from her son, to the clipping, to Jen. 

“I don’t want to impose,” Jen replied, noting the tension in the air. “I can tell you more about my story, if that helps.” 

Will stayed in the living room. He pretended to be distracted by a TRC-219 walkie talkie that he kept flicking on and off. The faint sound of static, pulsing like a heartbeat, left just enough white noise for the three adults to not feel so on edge. The adults sat at Joyce’s creaky dining table in the kitchen. The kitchen and living room reminded Jen of a more spacious version of her apartment. Nothing was fantastically well-kept, the wallpaper had a few chips in the kitchen, the tile was scuffed, the dark wooden panels in the living room made everything feel cozier and low light. But it smelled nice, like lemon.

“Skinwalker Ranch got its name because of the skin-walkers,” Jen said. “It’s this Navajo legend of shape-shifting witches that can possess or disguise themselves as animals. But the ranch has stories of other paranormal behaviors such as aliens and curses.” 

“And what do these _skin-walkers_ have to do with Hawkins?” Hopper asked. He was leaned back in his seat, his hands resting on his spread knees. His beige fedora was on the table, and she could see his matted down brown hair and a few drops of sweat. 

“Skin-walkers are always connected to disruptions to power lines, strange feelings of energy just before something awful happens,” Jen continued. “Sometimes they even prey on cattle, which is my current story.” 

“Where do they come from?” Hopper was frowning harder now. His mustached frown pulled his face downward, accentuating the squared harshness of his jaw.

“I assume somewhere local to Ballard," Jen replied. "A lot of what follows the stories about skin-walkers seems to have happened in Hawkins just before whatever event this story is trying to allude to. If I can crack this, I can have a bigger story than my editor could dream of, and I can sell it to a bigger paper.” 

Joyce sighed and said, “I admire your passion, but—”

“—I know, I sound like I’m hounding you.” Jen leaned back and waved her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make your family the centerpiece for some tabloid scandal. These stories have been around for years. If there’s a conspiracy, it could be bigger than Hawkins and Ballard put together.” 

Hopper rested his chin in one of his hands, perching his elbow on the arm of his chair. He rubbed his mustache and lips with his large hands, and stared at the floor. “I just don’t get it,” he said. “It almost sounds the same…Is there more than one door?” That question wasn’t for the reporter, though. He was looking at Joyce now. 

“What?” Jen asked, before Will appeared beside Joyce. The preteen boy watched Jen carefully.

“I thought we weren’t allowed to talk about this?” he said, he looked terrified. 

“For all we know, this could just be a bunch of stories,” Joyce said, letting the tabloid clipping fall from her hands and slide across the table back to Jen. Joyce beckoned Will to sit next to her in an open seat. “Come here, baby,” she said. 

“What do these skin-walkers look like?” the boy asked. 

Jen saw potential in how curious he was. “Sometimes it’s a mixture of wolf, bear, something else they can’t explain… They only come out at night, so people have a hard time explaining the sightings. I’ve never seen any of it, I’ve only heard stories from locals who claim to have. This farmer, McCallahan, that I’ve been talking to, says that it’s taken multiple cattle and left no trace of blood. I saw the remains… It wasn’t pretty.” 

Joyce shivered. “Could it be some prank? People like to prank farmers, right?” 

“It could be,” Jen replied with a shrug. She scrunched her face and shook her head. “But I don’t know many teenagers that are that clever or skilled. Even the best butchers make a little mess.” 

Jen turned her head to see Hopper watching her with what appeared to be an amused look on his face. “How do we know these people just aren’t crazy?” he asked, still resting his chin in his hand. 

“We weren’t,” Will firmly corrected. 

Joyce rubbed his shoulders and sighed. 

“Does that mean this story is real?” Jen asked, her eyes darting to each of them. 

Hopper breathed in deep. “What do you think this is?” he asked.

“Other than assuming skin-walkers are real, I haven’t found a single explanation,” Jen replied, taking note that he didn’t answer her question. “I can’t even rationalize some of the stories they tell me. They’re just weird. There are enough kooks out in Utah who will sell you a spooky story. But if you even try to ask the Navajo tribes about the legends, they won’t acknowledge them. So, that’s been a dead-end, too.”

“We’ve seen some weird things here,” Hopper admitted, nodding towards the tabloid clipping still sitting on the table. 

“Where did they come from?” Jen asked. Her heart started beating faster. She was both terrified and elated to hear her lead wasn’t a complete bust yet. 

“The Upside Down,” Will replied softly. 

“The what?” Jen asked, her attention spinning from Hopper to the boy next to her.

Hopper lifted his chin so he could open his palm to signal his own confusion. The police chief had only just twined together the kids’ obscure references about the previous months’ events. “The Upside Down,” he repeated for the reporter, drawing back her attention to him. “It’s some kind of other dimension, I guess?” His voice pitched as he trailed off, as if he felt stupid for even saying it out loud. “There’s some nasty creatures out there.” When he sat upright, the chair creaked underneath him. 

“Were,” Joyce corrected. 

Jen’s eyes fell on Will, who seemed somewhat uncomfortable. “You’ve seen these things, haven’t you, kid?” 

Will nodded. “It wasn’t a wolf, though.”

“How did you get to it to see it?” 

When he shrugged in response, his shoulders looked like a rocking see-saw. “They found us,” he said. “They found us through the Upside Down.” 

Jen looked up at the ceiling, fixating on a strange stain above her. “Have any of you heard of a ‘thin place’?”

Joyce and Hopper shook their heads. Will resolved himself to staring at something beneath the table, and Joyce took notice immediately. “You can go if you want, honey,” Joyce said, squeezing both of his shoulders with her hands. Her voice was gentle. 

“My friends are waiting for me at the arcade,” he said with his eyes lighting up at the change in subject. 

“Go on, baby,” Joyce replied, kissing Will’s forehead, and pushing his bangs back. “Just _please_ be careful. Stay close to Mike, okay?”

The smile he returned told Jen the mother and son were a close pair. Will ran to his room and reappeared with a book bag slung over his shoulder. He snatched his walkie talkie off the coffee table and waved goodbye before slamming the door behind him. Jen could hear the chain on his bike working in overtime to keep up with his legs as he peddled down the street.

Joyce’s eyes wandered to Hopper. “Will’s been through a lot,” she said in a voice that nearly cracked. “He’s still dealing with it all.”

“We all are,” Hopper added. Joyce squeezed his arm and smiled politely back to Jen. 

“I can’t offer a lot of answers,” Jen admitted. “But I know what the farmers out in the prairies have seen. I just need to know what you have seen to piece it together.” 

“What was that ‘thin place’ you were talkin’ about?” Hopper asked. 

“The ‘thin place’ connects Heaven to Earth,” she said. “But there’s some who have taken that concept to mean that where there’s places of strong energy, it could connect us to other realms—not just Heaven.” 

Joyce and Hopper looked at each other. Hopper grunted and cleared his throat. “We’ve seen an opening to the Upside Down.”

“What did it look like?” 

“It was just an opening,” Joyce replied. She was staring at a spot on the table while she gestured wildly with her hands, trying to find her words. “It was some kind of… Some kind of—” 

“—It was just there,” Hopper interjected. 

“Yeah, just there,” she added. Her hands dropped to the table, and her knuckles rapped against the tabletop on their way down. It was the only sound the house made now that Will was gone. 

Jen's heart rate had slowed, but she felt overwhelmed hearing them confirm all the paranormal abnormalities she had been unable to prove for months. 

“The Upside Down isn’t some other place,” Joyce continued. “It’s here. It’s just like here. It’s just different somehow.” 

Jen looked between Joyce and Hopper. She could see how much distress the story was causing them. It was different from the way McCallahan rambled about mysterious cattle mutilations. This story had clawed its way into the coating of their bones. 

“If I ask you to show me the door, can you?” Jen asked.

“No,” Joyce said firmly and shook her head. 

Jen’s hope vanished. 

“The only reason we’re even sharing this much is because you came with your skin-walker story,” Hopper added. “But we promised we wouldn’t tell anyone else. We’ve already broken that.” 

Jen narrowed her eyes in a look of disbelief. “So, wait. No one knows about this?” She noticed Joyce staring at her hands, now in her lap, and chewing on the inside of her cheek. “Did they _threaten_ you to keep quiet?” Jen asked.

“They’re protecting us and helping Will,” Hopper replied softly. He looked to Joyce and noticed her discomfort. 

Ordinarily, Jen would have pushed for more information, but she could see wherever this story was going, it wasn’t going to help them heal. She stood up and gathered her things into her bag. “I hope I didn’t—”

“—You didn’t do anything wrong,” Joyce said, standing up to wave a hand in dismissal. “We appreciate what you’re trying to do.” 

Jen nodded. “I won’t tell anyone about what you’ve said.” 

“You better not,” Hopper replied firmly. The smoldering look in his eyes felt threatening. 

“I won’t,” Jen replied with a straight face. 

Joyce escorted the reporter to the door, Hopper following close behind. “Thank you again, Joyce,” Jen said. “I know this wasn’t easy. I’ll make sure to burn the clipping I found, if that helps.” 

When the door closed, Joyce and Hopper locked eyes. “I’ll keep an eye on her,” he reassured his friend, and gave her a strong hug. 

The next morning, Jen woke up in her motel room and laid in her bed for 15 minutes before convincing herself to move around. She was surprised at her restraint. She hadn’t run off to investigate the rest of the story in spite of Hopper or Joyce; she didn’t even mention it during her call with Scott. Something about the pair’s demeanor shook her. But she was desperate to know what else was lying beneath the Byers’ story. The tabloid clipping was burned in the motel room’s ash tray, but she had already memorized half of it by then.

There was no stimulation in her motel room, just four off-white walls, a lumpy bed, and a broken television set. She knew if she wanted any perspective, she would have to explore the town. If she could understand Hawkins, perhaps she could piece together how a boy can die and come back to life as Will had. Or hadn’t? So much of the story was unclear. 

Jen parked on the street by a diner in downtown Hawkins that boasted the “best pancakes in Indiana”. She locked her car door and turned to see Jim Hopper leaning against his police car. He was parked two spots away, directly in front of the diner’s doors. A cigarette hung from his mouth. As he inhaled, it bounced between his lips. His hands were clasping the front of his uniform belt. His hat was titled on his head to shade his eyes. 

Hopper saw Jen and grinned. He flicked the butt of the cigarette to the ground, stamping it with his boot. When he approached her, he did so with a slight saunter. “Fancy meetin’ you here, out-of-towner,” he said. He tipped his hat and fixed it to its proper position at the crown of his head.

She wasn’t buying his perky demeanor, but she couldn’t say it wasn’t at the very least charming. “Are you stalking me now?” she asked. 

“Stalking? Nah. But I like to know about the people who come into my town to pester my neighbors. Seems only right as an officer of the law.” 

“Well, you’re welcome to interrogate me over pancakes,” she said, walking towards the door, leaving Hopper where he stood on the sidewalk. 

Hopper pretended to check his watch and followed her in, dragging his feet behind him as if it was such a chore to even consider. “Ah, I guess I can be persuaded to breakfast.” 

Jen seated herself near the back of the diner, and Hopper greeted everyone inside with a smile and nod, taking his time to get to the table she had chosen. He seemed to know the patrons well. He slid into the booth across from her, drumming on the table between them with his knuckles.

Jen looked up from her menu with a cocked eyebrow. “Are you more of a morning person or something?” 

“What?” 

She scanned him with her eyes. “You’re chipper this morning. You weren’t yesterday.” 

“Just happy to have company for breakfast,” Hopper replied. A server came over to the table and offered water and silverware to the pair. “Can you get me the usual, Anna?” 

The blonde, young waitress smiled. “Of course, Hops!” She turned to Jen with the same beaming, customer service smile. “And what about you, ma’am?” 

“Scrambled eggs with cheese on top, and a two stack of pancakes, please,” she replied with a smile. She returned the menu to its slot at the end of the table. 

When Anna left, Jen looked at Hopper. He was staring back at her inquisitively. 

“So,” she said. “What do you want to know? This is _your_ interrogation.” 

“Can’t I just be here for the company?” 

“Doubt it,” Jen replied. 

Hopper chuckled. “Okay, I’ve got one,” he said, slapping the table. He leaned forward and rested his arms on the surface. “Why Hawkins?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Don’t you have enough crazy stories in those tabloids o' yours? Why did you choose Hawkins?” 

The sound of sizzling from the kitchen grabbed Jen’s attention. She could smell the food as it passed between other customers, and her stomach growled. She tried to focus on Hopper’s face. His blue eyes were bright; the natural light pouring in from the window beside them even made them sparkle. She was growing more desperate for the distraction of food. He stared intently at her, patiently waiting for her answer. 

Before Jen responded, Anna returned with their plates. “Enjoy!” the woman said, and delicately placed their ticket on the table with their orders. The food smelled delicious, and Jen’s stomach made another noise. It was louder this time. Hopper heard it and smirked, biting into a piece of sausage with his eyes still glued on the reporter. 

She took a bite of egg before answering. “I—”

“—Do you want coffee?” Hopper interrupted. 

“Y-yes, please,” Jen replied. She hadn’t even considered it, but she was in desperate need of caffeine. 

“Annie!” Hopper shouted over his shoulder. “Can we get two coffees, please?” 

“Sure!” the waitress replied, heading over quickly with the coffee pot and mugs. “You need sugar?”

“Nah, not right now, thanks,” he replied, not bothering to ask the reporter.

Anna walked away, and Jen could have sworn she saw the blonde blushing. Hopper’s smile was spread across his face when he turned back to look at Jen. She tried staring at him with a straight face, but a smirk broke her composure. He must have found himself amusing because he let a grin stick to his face while he chewed. 

“To answer your question, you’d be surprised how few stories aren’t about Elvis still being alive or the end of the world,” she said, looking back down to her plate and shifting her food around with her fork. “The story from Hawkins finally felt familiar, and it was happening in an unassuming town like Ballard.” She shrugged. "But Hawkins is much bigger than Ballard. We barely have 500 people." 

Hopper didn’t respond and focused on his food, but Jen didn't mind. Skipping dinner had been a mistake; she tore through her pancakes, stopping only to breathe and to focus on her coffee. Hopper watched her as she held the steaming mug close to her. She looked out the window beside them that stretched wall-to-wall across the diner. The morning sun was low and casted a soft, white glow down the street. Hawkins' downtown was full of pale brick structures that must have stood for decades undisturbed. It looked idyllic and nice.

“Do you like Hawkins?” she asked Hopper, turning her attention back to him. 

He removed the bacon hanging out of his mouth to answer. “I’d say so,” he replied. “I grew up here, so I guess if I hated it that badly I wouldn’t have come back.” He dusted off his hands and grabbed a napkin. 

She took the last bite of her eggs before pushing the plate away. “I’m sorry if I imposed on you and Joyce. I could tell you hated telling that story.” 

Hopper watched her over his mug while he sipped his coffee. “It’s not an imposition,” he said. “But I can’t let you bother the Byers anymore about that story. You’re already looking suspicious around here.” He tilted his head towards the window. 

Hopper threw back the rest of the coffee while Jen turned her head and saw four boys on bicycles just outside of the diner. They were staring at her. She recognized one of them as Will Byers. All four boys watched the strange woman from the sidewalk. Their bicycles were pointed in the direction of the general store a block away.

One boy with a tan complexion had a t-shirt with some kind of cartoon character, wrinkled blue jeans, and a walkie talkie sticking out of his bookbag. His hair was curly, mousy brown, and pushed down by a hat. Next to him was another young boy with dark skin and a teal tank top hanging from his square shoulders. His jeans were cuffed and pressed. His eyes were large, but the look on his face was hard to read by the reporter. The boy next to Will had the most pointed glare. Despite his light complexion, he wasn’t as pale as Will. His hair was dark and hung around his ears. His jaw was defined, and his striped polo shirt was tucked into his jeans. Next to them, Will still seemed haunted by _something_ , and it made Jen worry more for the boy. 

From the other side of the diner, the boys mumbled amongst themselves. They didn't know why Will had stopped them on their way to the store, but his reaction to seeing Hopper and the other woman in the restaurant worried them. 

“Is Hopper on a date or something?” Lucas asked. He fidgeted with the hem of his tank top and stared at the police chief as if he was an alien. 

“They’re just getting coffee, numb-skull,” Dustin said with a lingering lisp, adjusting his hat. He punched his friend in the arm. Lucas reached behind him and punched Dustin back. 

“They’re not dating,” Will said, interrupting their bickering. “She was at my house asking us about the Upside Down yesterday.” 

Mike clenched his bicycle handles. “That’s not good.” 

“What?” Dustin squeaked. “What’s not good? Tell me what’s not good!” 

Mike’s head spun around towards Dustin. “Some writer shows up with some news story about Will?” Mike replied with a pointed firmness. “Nothing about that can be good. We were told not to talk about it.” 

A _ding_ from another bike’s bell interrupted their conversation, and a boy whizzed past the group with a malicious grin. “‘Sup, Zombie Boy?” His figure disappeared around the corner with no time for the group to retaliate. 

Mike gritted his teeth. “Forget that guy,” he said to Will. “He’s a piece of shit.” 

“I’m not looking forward to school starting,” Will admitted. 

The group looked back up to Jen with unflinching stares. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Lucas said. “I’m not getting written about.” 

The _thud_ of Hopper’s mug hitting the tabletop brought Jen’s attention back to him; the kids’ bicycles flew down the sidewalk out of her periphery. 

“Why are those boys staring at me like I’m a monster?” she asked. 

Hopper was leaning back in his seat, arms behind his head in a relaxed position. “You’re the one that came around here asking for the Byers just months after Will was pronounced alive. Maybe you are.” 

“I can just leave if that’s easier,” she replied with a cocked eyebrow. 

“You didn’t drive all the way out here from Utah just to leave,” he replied. “Plus, I know you won’t leave. I’m smarter than that.” He dug his tongue to the side of his mouth, and she assumed he was fishing some sausage out of his teeth. 

“Does that mean I’m going to catch you outside waiting for me every time I go into town?” 

“I’ll do a drive by the motel once in a while, too, just to cover my bases.” 

Jen frowned. “Can I at least know who is threatening you all?” 

“It’s not a threat,” Hopper replied more seriously and sat up. “And no, you can’t.” 

“If it’s not a threat, why can’t you just say it? Is it the lab?” 

The police chief hopped up out of the booth, snatching their ticket off the table. Jen followed him and reached out for the paper once they made it to the counter. Just as she was about to get it from him, he snatched it away. It wasn’t exactly a fair fight between them, and he knew that as he dangled the ticket just out of reach. 

“Please,” he _tsked_. “It’s only right of me to pay for a lady’s meal.” 

Jen frowned but worried she just looked like she was pouting. “I suppose I should say ‘thank you’ for your generosity.” 

“All in a day’s work, ma’am.”

Anna ripped the receipt from the cash register and handed it to the police chief who stuffed his wallet back in the chest pocket of his uniform. As Jen and Hopper headed out of the diner’s doors, he fumbled for his pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out and lit it, clearing his throat after the first inhale. Jen crossed her arms and stared at Hopper. He took another puff and peered down to see the woman’s perturbed expression. He gestured wide with his hands, the cigarette dangling from his lips. “What?” he grumbled. His hands fell to his sides, hitting his hips and jangling the keys in his pocket.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious about the skin-walkers I mentioned?” 

He rolled his eyes. His response was muffled with the cigarette in his mouth: “I’m not a Ghostbuster, I’m a police officer.” 

“Says the man who’s got quite a monster story.” 

Hopper pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and stepped towards Jen, towering over her. For a moment, she felt her heart stop beating. “Look,” he said firmly. “You’ve got to let this go. _Please_.” 

“And if I don’t?” 

Hopper turned around and walked a few steps towards his car. He threw his half-used cigarette to the ground. “Alright, fine. You want to talk about it?” 

“Yes!”

The police chief snatched his car keys out of his pocket and tossed them up in the air to theatrically catch them in the other hand. “Fine. Follow me,” he commanded, pointing at her.

He was already halfway in his car when he whistled at her to get her attention. Jen’s eyes grew wider when she realized he was about to leave without her. She fumbled for her own keys, jumping into her car. She pulled out and almost cut off someone coming down the road. Hopper hit his siren to let it wail for a second, signaling that he saw her minor traffic violation. She rolled her eyes but did her best to keep up. 

As they kept driving, the houses and businesses thinned. _This man’s gonna kill me in the woods,_ she thought. He watched from his rear-view mirror to make sure she was still there. Amused he got her to follow him this far, he turned off suddenly onto a dirt road; she just barely missed the turn. At the end of the path was a trailer by the water. _He’s gonna kill me. Just dump my body right in the lake._

Hopper pried open the door to the trailer and let Jen enter first. It was a bit of a mess, a few pill and beer bottles on the coffee table and tiny kitchen counter. She looked around, noting the label on the pill bottles for anxiety, and two plates still in the sink. “Charming,” she said. 

“I haven’t been here in a while to clean it up,” he replied, kicking a can out of his way. 

The two stood in the living room with silence festering between them. After a couple of minutes, Jen spoke first. “What does the town think happened to Will?” she asked. 

He fiddled his wrist, and she noticed a blue hair tie wrapped around it. “Will was taken by that _thing_ in the Upside Down. We told the press that he was lost. At the time, that’s all we knew. We just didn’t know at the time _how_ lost.” He snapped the hair tie against his skin and dropped his hands to his sides. “Then we found a body in the quarry, and we thought it was his.” 

“Whose was it?” 

Hopper cleared his throat and walked to the refrigerator. He scratched the back of his head while he bent down to try to see if any beer was left inside. He grabbed two cans and wordlessly offered Jen one. She held out her hands, and he tossed it to her underhanded.

Hopper was quiet. Jen fiddled with the tab, waiting for him to answer. Her expression had softened when she realized she was causing him discomfort again. She had time to feel guilty about that once she knew she wasn’t getting murdered. 

“Whose body was in the quarry?” she repeated. 

“It was a decoy.” 

Jen found a spot on the old couch. Her weight crashed into the cushion. Hopper followed suit. He opened his can of beer and it _hissed_. 

She didn’t look directly at the police chief. “Decoy,” she echoed. “Like a cover up?” 

He cleared his throat. “Yup, like that,” he answered and looked up to the ceiling. He took a sip of his beer and fixed his gaze on the broken ceiling fan above him. He pointed up to it with the hand holding his beer. “I should fix that.” 

Jen couldn’t let Hopper pull focus. “I don’t suppose that was an easy story to sell.” She still didn’t understand who or what wanted to cover up the story, and what that had to do with the Upside Down. 

“We didn’t,” he said, letting his hands dangle the can between his spread legs. When he sat in that comfortable position, he took up nearly most of the tiny couch. 

She turned her body to face his. “What does that mean?” she asked and opened her beer. It was still morning, but she supposed that didn’t matter. 

Hopper didn’t turn toward Jen, but his gaze moved from the ceiling to the curtained window across the room. “We buried the fake body, and when Will came back—” he lifted the can to his mouth just an inch from his lips “—we said it was a mistake.” He took a large swig of beer and examined the can. A can he’d probably seen a million times. “We told them we determined it was a boy from another town and decomposition made it difficult to properly identify him at the time.”

“But Will was really in the Upside Down? With some kind of monster?” 

He placed his beer on the coffee table in front of him. “Yeah.” 

Jen took a sip of her beer and looked out the window behind them. The curtain wasn’t drawn completely, and she could see the afternoon sun shining against the lake. Blades of grass danced against a hot breeze. She balanced her can on the back of the couch while she watched the grass sway. Hopper watched her. 

“That’s all you got?” he asked, attempting a smirk. 

“The tabloid,” she said, turning her head to meet his eyes. “It said that there was a conspiracy in Hawkins with some lab.” Hopper groaned and stood up to toss the can in the trash. He picked up some items to throw out along the way. “Okay,” Jen continued with an irritated tone. “I let you get off easy yesterday, but you’ve got me here. You can’t ignore my questions. I know how to get around these tricks, y’know?” 

Hopper threw away the litter in his hands. “I didn’t exactly become chief of police by being bad at interviews myself, darlin’.” 

Jen was growing tired of the back and forth. She finally thought she was getting somewhere, but he was proving more stubborn by the minute. “What’s the secret with the lab that you’re working so hard to avoid answering? What’s the thing that _actually_ took Will?” 

“I can’t tell you that much.” 

“That’s not fair, you said you’d answer my questions,” she said, firm and frustrated. 

Hopper threw his arms out. “Well, that’s just too damn bad! This is off the record now!” 

“Fine! I won’t print it, is that what you want to hear? But the least you can do is answer my question. This could be important!” 

His voice was low like the mumble of thunder before it shook the sky. “I’ve got news for you... You’re not about to bust this wide open for us. That’s already happened, and we’ve dealt with it. Just let it go!” He was fuming now. This reporter couldn’t just demand information that he swore he’d keep private. He had people he cared about that he had to protect, and he wasn’t interested in risking them or the rest of Hawkins. Everyone affected by the Upside Down and the demi-whatever-the-kids-called-it had nearly all sacrificed their sanity and lives to get rid of that thing. It was over. He wanted it to be over. 

Jen stood up, angry. “What if the same thing that happened to Hawkins is happening in Ballard?!” She moved closer to the tiny kitchen Hopper stood in. 

“That’s not happening,” he replied under his breath, throwing out a dismissive wave of his hand. Both hands landed on his hips, his fingers looping into his belt. He saw it end. _Just let it be over._

“How do you know that’s not happening?” she asked, frustration burning her lungs. 

“Because it’s just not!” Hopper roared, throwing his arms out again. “It _can’t_ happen anywhere else. We handled it!” The trailer walls shook in what might have been a monstrous feat if it didn't feel like the two were screaming inside a tin can. 

“How can you be so sure of that?!” Jen yelled back. Her voice cracked. 

The police chief took two aggressive steps towards the woman and was already in front of her. “You can’t just show up and start rootin’ around where you don’t belong.” 

“I’m not trying to root around where I don’t belong,” she replied firmly. 

Hopper scoffed and threw himself onto the couch again. Jen stood across from him, arms folded, and glaring at him. Her voice dropped to a lower decibel. “If the tabloid was correct, that means the lab was connected to all of this right?” 

“ _If_ it was correct, then you’d be right,” he said quietly. 

“Then tell me why NASA built an observatory overlooking Skinwalker Ranch last year, the moment sightings started to become more frequent?” she asked, not expecting a response. “The moment they set up, massive power lines were built all around the ranch!” She threw out an arm as if gesturing in a specific direction. “Now, every time McCallahan loses livestock, the surges of energy that hit those lines disrupt power in all of Ballard. Is your lab NASA?”

"It's not NASA..." Hopper rubbed his face with his hands. “Power surges every time, huh?” 

“Every time.” She dropped her arms and shrugged. “Or so says some crazy farmer.” She sighed. “Look, I don’t always believe these stories, but it’s a fuckin' weird coincidence.”

“You still don’t know the whole story.” 

“I know. That’s why I’m here.”

Hopper groaned and stood up, readjusting his hat. He didn’t acknowledge her, he didn’t say anything. He just walked out of the trailer. She followed him out and stood on the rickety porch trying to figure out what he was doing. He was several feet away fiddling with his car keys. 

“Where the hell are you going?” Jen shouted to him. 

Hopper shoved his keys in the car door and looked up at her expectantly. “Are you coming or what?” His eyes were wide but his brow was furrowed. She thought he almost looked deranged. 

Jen slid into the passenger’s side of Hopper’s car, and he sped away from the trailer. The tires squealed against the worn dirt road. “You’re really annoying, you know that?” he said. 

“Thanks.”


	2. The Lab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hopper takes Jen to the Hawkins National Laboratory where she presses Dr. Owens about the skin-walker sightings in Ballard. More anecdotal evidence puts the reporter on edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Slam dunks a new chapter on top of your head.] Take that. Also, I should add that I did actually add a little bit of something something to the first chapter. I promise not to keep editing things after posting. It was just an impulse this one time. So if you already chapter 1, I would just scrub through it once more, if you're interested.

**November 18, 1983**

> Case Screening: Suspect/vehicle not seen, only one victim involved  
> Report of: Missing Child   
> Last Name, First: Byers, William  
> Sex: M  
> HT: 4’8”   
> WT: 90 pounds  
> Age: 12  
> DOB: 03/22/1971
> 
> Location of Occurrence: Corner of Cornwallis Road and Kerley Road  
> Date & Time of Occurrence: 11/6/1983, approx. 9 PM   
> Recovered: Schwinn bicycle with round street lamp
> 
> Byers was last seen at the Wheeler residence playing a game of Dungeons and Dragons with Mike Wheeler, Lucas Sinclair, and Dustin Henderson. Byers was reportedly seen leaving the Wheelers’ home after 8 PM on his bicycle, a Schwinn with a round street lamp and thick tires. Henderson reports that Byers raced on their bicycles to the Henderson residence and continued on to the Byers’ home. Evidence of the bicycle left in the woods near Cornwallis and Kerley suggests an animal or person may have intercepted Byers on his way home at this point. Investigation is ongoing. 

The report fell out of a manila folder Flo dropped on Hopper’s desk. She stood at his tiny office’s doorway and cut him a look while gripping the ash tray she confiscated from his desk. 

“What?” he asked her with a grin. 

Her pursed lips spread into a soft smile. “Have a good evening, Chief,” she replied. She patted the doorway with her palm as she walked away. 

“Good evenin’,” he replied softly. 

It had been a long day for all of them at the precinct. A long series of days. Flo especially felt the weight of the work from her corner desk managing reports, calls, and civilian complaints. Her dyed-brown curls had flattened. The red lipstick on her wrinkled mouth faded several cups of coffee ago. Her eyelids were heavy; she looked exhausted. Hopper’s two officers, Phil Callahan and Calvin Powell, were similarly disheveled. They were dispatched and spread thin across Hawkins all day, coming back with dirt staining their once-pressed navy pants, and their light blue uniform shirts hanging loose on their shoulders. Patches of sweat marked them under their arms and on their backs. The two officers weren’t grinning and muttering dumb jokes between each other. They were quiet, filing their reports and not bothering to say much at all as Flo left for the day. 

In his office, Hopper’s eyes were glued to the old report on Will’s disappearance. It had only been a week since the boy’s return, and Hawkins was a whirlwind of confusion, frustration, and fear. No matter what story they spun about Will—with Hopper there to confidently back up the assertion that there wasn’t anything fishy going on with the Byers’ case—the town was not happy. Tensions increased for the chief and his officers, and they did their best to keep their head above water as they answered to the press and the people. 

As long as Hopper had it his way, the town would never know what actually happened to Will Byers. 

While he scanned the report, Hopper’s mind wandered to Will’s body—his actual body—trapped in the Upside Down. That night changed Hopper in a way that he hadn’t expected. When Joyce screamed his name and he saw Will, Hopper’s blood vessels twisted and locked him in place. He had never felt so stiff, so cold, so afraid. Nothing—not war, nor cancer, nor the seediest underbelly of the city—could have prepared him for the boy’s otherworldly circumstances. It only took him a few seconds to thaw and race towards Will, releasing him from the vined web that caged him. Joyce followed his instruction as he manically pumped Will’s lungs, pleading for him to wake up. 

Perhaps his vigor and desperation to bring Will out of the Upside Down alive came from Sara—his daughter who had passed away years before. Every drink he had had since the day she died drove away everyone—his ex-wife, his family, his friends, his career. Returning to Hawkins was never his victory lap. He had to come back and face his peers who had grown up to build their own lives on the same soil. He had to lock eyes with them every day while they pitied him for everything he no longer had. His promotion as chief was a small token of his duty, but the competition was never stiff at the station. Nothing felt earned, so nothing felt deserved. In some twisted way, the Upside Down made him find gratification in simply being. It was the one time someone needed _him_ , specifically, since Sara. 

Snapping back to reality, Hopper sighed and looked around at his office. He checked his watch and groaned; he was due for an appointment at the lab, and he was running late. 

**July 22, 1984**

The drive was mostly silent for the first ten minutes. To Jen, Hopper didn't seem quite as irritated as he had been; his knuckles were no longer white from clenching the steering wheel. His breathing had evened. She still didn't know where they were going, but the one time she interrupted the heaviness between them to ask, he responded, "About another 10 minutes." His dismissive tone told her to not ask any follow up questions. 

Jen looked out the window at the passing scenery. Hawkins wasn't as flat as Ballard. There were more hills and cliff falls scattered behind neighborhoods and busying streets. It was something different to look at while she avoided the man in the driver’s side seat. She didn't notice when Hopper turned his head to watch her silently. He never watched for long, but it was enough to see that she was transfixed by the tree line whizzing by. His insides were churning at the thought that something like what happened last year could happen again. Each time he looked at Jen’s profile, he was reminded how much more dangerous this could get with more players on the board. 

He cleared his throat. "Sorry about, uh, getting so worked up back there," he said. 

Jen slowly pulled her eyes off the passenger side window and looked at him. He was focused on the road, one arm draped over the top of the wheel while the other elbow was perched on the driver's side door. 

"I don't blame you,” Jen replied, her voice dropping lower. “You were right. I sorta came out of nowhere with a lot of questions. I just—"

"—You just need to know what’s going on… I get it. I was the same way last year." 

They passed a sign that warned of the Hawkins National Laboratory's guarded and private property. Jen balked at the scale of the lab: the tall and extensive structure, the armory, the fencing, the power lines. It felt like the NASA facility just on the edge of Ballard, but its lack of familiar space-oriented branding made its purpose more ominous. Jen leaned forward in her seat to examine everything closely. 

"Let me do the talking," Hopper said, pulling up to the window with a guard standing alert. 

"Afternoon," the guard said. He looked like he was pulled directly off an Army base with a buzzed head peeking out of their cap and a neatly pressed uniform. 

“Afternoon to ya,” Hopper replied, nodding and grinning. “Chief Jim Hopper here to see Dr. Sam Owens.” 

“And the lady?” The guard eyed the woman in the passenger’s side suspiciously. 

Hopper looked over his shoulder to Jen, who was awkwardly smiling up to the guard. “She’s uh… She’s with me,” he replied, his voice hitting a low, graveled register that Jen had only heard twice now.

“Jen Whitaker,” she interjected. “I was hoping we could speak to Dr. Owens.” 

Hopper shot her a look. 

“One moment,” the guard replied. He retreated into the stall that powered the gate, closing the door behind him. The pair could hear him chatting with someone in a muffled tone on the phone. 

“You don’t listen well, do ya?” Hopper said under his breath to Jen. 

“Sorry,” she replied and bit her bottom lip. “I didn’t like how he was looking at me.” 

“Yeah, well this is a high security facility, so they’re gonna do that and ask a lot of questions here.”

After what felt like minutes, the guard opened the door to the stall and powered the gate open. “Dr. Owens said to come straight to his office.” 

Hopper situated his hands on the wheel. “Thanks.” Jen could see Hopper tensing again, and it was putting her on edge. As they pulled through the gates he sighed. “Don’t say anything until we get to the doc’s office,” he warned under his breath. “I mean it this time.” 

The fluorescent lighting inside the lab glared off of the white flooring and walls. It felt overbearingly cold and isolating. Jen could hear the shuffle of feet and obscured conversation coming from every branching corridor. She wasn’t listening to Hopper and Dr. Owens as they exchanged pleasantries. Instead, she was counting the steps they took through the labyrinthine halls, taking note of each turn. Hopper stood uncomfortably close to her to keep her in his sights while Dr. Owens and a guard escorted them. One of his hands hovered over her shoulder, as if he was ready to grip down if she said or did anything that he didn’t want her to. 

Inside Dr. Owens’ office, the bright windows and oak furniture were a warm contrast to the rest of the lab. From his view, Jen could see a beautiful tree line and some of the taller buildings peeking out from downtown Hawkins. 

“I’m surprised to see you here without Ms. Byers and young Will,” Dr. Owens said as he rounded his desk to his leather seat. 

“I’m a free agent today,” Hopper chuckled, sitting down in the chair across from the doctor’s desk and taking off his hat. Jen sat down next to Hopper and tried not to look anxious.

Once Dr. Owens was comfortable, he smiled at Jen. “I don’t think we’ve met just yet.” The doctor was white-haired and had the demeanor of a physician with a talent for bedside manner. He wasn’t the only person in the lab with a white coat, but the badge over his pocket was the most polished. 

“You can call me Jen,” she replied.

“Well,” Dr. Owens started, adjusting his posture in his chair. He gestured his hands towards both of them, his elbows resting on the desk in front of him. “What can I do for you?” 

Hopper sat upright. “You know that _thing_ you’ve been helping us with, Doc?” 

Dr. Owens looked somewhat uncomfortable, his eyes darted to Jen before landing back on Hopper and frowning. “Yes.” 

“Well, this lady’s been seein’ the same thing in Utah,” he replied, nudging his head towards Jen. “And your answers could make me feel a lot safer right now.” His voice dropped to a lower register and his brow furrowed as he added, “So, I suggest we have a conversation.” 

“What _exactly_ have you seen?” Dr. Owens asked, looking at Jen with an attempted smile. 

As she recounted the numerous reports from Skinwalker Ranch, the doctor looked more uneasy. His brow creased; his eyes widened. He wrung his hands while he listened intently. 

“The only difference between my stories and his,” she said, sticking a thumb out towards Hopper, “is that the stories at the ranch have been going on for decades...”

“Decades?” Dr. Owens echoed inquisitively. 

“Skin-walker legends have existed longer than most generations in Ballard. Which could mean this monster, or weird phenomenon, could have had footholds in our world for longer than we realize… Assuming I’m right, and this is all the same.”

Dr. Owens didn’t say anything. His eyes followed the grain in the wood of his desk while he thought.

“Do you have any NASA connections?” Jen asked, interrupting whatever he was thinking. 

“I might,” he said. 

“You might want to call them and ask them why they’re in Ballard.” 

Dr. Owens’ lips parted as if he was going to say more but Hopper cut him off. “Look Doc,” the chief said with a frown. “We owe you quite a bit for what you’re doing to try to help Will, but I don’t like that there are stories of his disappearance floatin’ around tabloids for strange reporters to just show up and start asking questions—”

“—I’m hardly strange,” Jen protested, but Hopper ignored her. 

“I thought we kicked this thing,” he continued. “You told me we kicked this thing. Please convince me you didn’t lie to me.” 

There was that moment again where Jen could feel how much pain was boiling over in Hopper. She could see his jaw clenching and the muscles in his neck tightening. Jen reached out to signal to Hopper to ease off. He leaned back in his chair in response, propping his elbow on his chair and resting his chin in his hand. 

“I don’t want to cause any issues, I’ve already told Hopper this,” she said. “Ultimately, I don’t care about reporting on a town that’s states away from mine. The lede is Ballard, and I intend on keeping it that way. But I’m concerned something awful is happening there. I’d hate to know that Ballard missed the same signs Hawkins did, and I could have done something to warn against it. Is this lab responsible for what happened in Hawkins?”

Something about the stiffness in Dr. Owens’ facial features made Jen believe he didn’t want to answer that question. “Dr. Brenner’s team were highly skilled men and women looking to change the world.” 

“That’s a very diplomatic way of putting it,” Jen retorted. 

“It wasn’t what they did, it was what they discovered.” 

“Or how they handled that discovery?” 

Dr. Owens smirked and gestured towards Jen while looking at Hopper. “Your friend here is a pushy one.” 

Hopper returned a smirk. He pulled his chin off of his hand and sat up straighter. “Could NASA be doing the same thing in Ballard?” 

“I don’t want to start drilling down on conspiracy theories, Jim. As a man of science, my hypotheses tend to have more structure.” 

Jen stared at the tree line behind the doctor, trying to figure out her next question. "I've asked the Byers and Hopper about what happened here, but they've been tight-lipped. Which I imagine is your doing. If I ask you the same questions, are you going to tell me what went wrong here?" 

"I suppose that depends on how you ask your question," the doctor replied. 

"What took Will Byers last year?" 

"I'm not sure we have a real word for it. A monster, I guess." Dr. Owens looked uncomfortable, but he maintained a sense of stoicism that told Jen he hadn't actually faced it the same way Hopper or the Byers had. She pulled out a piece of paper ripped from a book. On it were three different drawings of skin-walkers: one with a lanky, contorted body and the face of a wolf; one with the head of a goat and the body of a man; and one with hardly any discernible features but tall. "What is this?" he asked. 

"These are pictures drawn from depictions of skin-walkers over the years," Jen replied. She pointed at the page. "Do any of these seem like what Hawkins saw?" 

Hopper was staring at the page with a cocked eyebrow, but he refused to answer for the doctor. 

"I don't know that these are exactly as described, but they're not far off from what Will has drawn." 

"So you haven't seen the creature?" 

"Not exactly," he said. "My team has been handling the fallout, but I wasn't on the front lines." 

"I was," Hopper spoke up, and Jen turned her head towards him. "It's not the same. And it was bigger, but that doesn't mean that those drawings aren't wrong." 

"Where is the monster now?" she asked. 

"Gone," Hopper replied.

" _Gone_ as in 'dead', or _gone_ as in 'not here'?" she pressed. 

"Dead," he said. Jen took the drawing and stowed it back in her bag. "I told you we handled it," he added. 

"Is there any way to get into the Upside Down, or anything else there?" 

"My team ran some tests initially, but we couldn't find any proof of any real activity," Dr. Owens said. “Just so I'm clear, who knows you’re investigating this story?” 

“Just the Byers and the chief,” she replied. 

Hopper spoke up: “Well, I’m sure the kids know by now.” 

Jen thought back to the view from the diner and eight eyes staring at her that morning. “They’re the only ones,” she said, drawing the doctor’s attention to her. “My paper knows I’m invested in Skinwalker Ranch’s stories, but my editor doesn’t actually know I’m out here.” 

Hopper’s head swiveled towards her with a confused expression. 

Dr. Owens stared intently at the woman. “Let’s keep it that way,” he said. “If this is a bigger issue than just Dr. Brenner’s work, I can find out. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.” His bedside demeanor took over once more. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll have to ask that you sign some documentation for us.” 

“Documentation?” Jen asked. 

“Just a formality,” he replied with a lilt, holding his palms up to her defensively. “Simple confidentiality agreements so we can ensure the Byers’ safety and the security of our work here. We have a lot of fixing to do thanks to the mess this place caused Hawkins. The less that gets out, the better.” 

Jen wanted to protest, but it was rarely in a reporter’s best interest to remind someone that their intent was to reveal information rather than conceal it. She could hear Hopper groan under his breath. 

Dr. Owens stood up to signal that the conversation was finished, and a guard escorted Hopper and Jen to a room nearby with a stack of papers for her to sign. After 30 minutes, her head was spinning from all of the legalese she had absorbed. 

When they got inside the truck, Hopper flipped the visors around and fiddled with the knobs on his radio, as if he were expecting something to happen other than the obvious. He set it all back as it was and started the engine. 

“Nervous habit?” Jen asked. 

“Just checking they didn’t bug me,” he mumbled. 

Jen watched as Dr. Owens waved from a parapet overhanging one side of the lab. “Can we trust Dr. Owens?” she asked

Hopper shifted gears and threw an arm behind her head to focus on the road behind him. His voice strained as he turned and shifted the truck out of reverse. “I’m still figurin’ that one out.” 

He drove out of the gates and accelerated just enough to get the lab out of his rear-view mirror. The cab was silent until they turned onto a new street.

“Did you have to sign all of those papers?” Jen asked. 

“Yeah, all of us did.” 

“Who’s ‘all of us’?” 

“Joyce, Will, his brother Jonathan, Will’s friends, myself, and some of their family.” 

“Do they all know what happened to Will?” 

“Some were just told part of the story,” he said. “Supposedly for their protection.” 

“You don’t agree?” 

“Keepin’ this a secret was the only way I saw at the time for everyone to be safe. It worked out okay… But I can’t say I’m thrilled that we’re not the only ones dealing with this sort of thing.”

Jen fidgeted with her hands as they rested in her lap. Her eyes followed the tree line by her window again. Hopper noticed how quiet she was, his eyes shifting from the road to her a few times. “Your boss doesn’t know you’re out here, huh?” he asked. 

“Not exactly,” she replied, her eyes still on the trees.

“I thought you were writing this story for your paper.” 

“I’m definitely writing the story,” she said. “But I’m going around the editor of the _Ledger_ to do it.” 

“Anything else you’re not telling’ me?” 

“I never said I was writing it for my editor; if anything, I was pretty clear that it was in spite of him.” 

“Yeah, sure.” He shrugged. “But I’d still like to know if you’ve got any more secrets before I go down this rabbit hole with you.” 

Jen turned her head to face Hopper’s cheek. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” 

“Oh no…” he said, shaking his head. He locked eyes with her for a second before looking back to the road. “You’re not doing this without supervision.” 

She rested her head against her headrest and kept her eyes glued to the side of his face. “I’d rather do it without you if it’s going to cause you trouble.” 

Hopper huffed through his nose and adjusted his posture in the driver’s seat. “I’m a big kid, you don’t have to worry about me.” 

“I don’t believe that.” 

“Which part?” he asked with a smirk. 

“I see the way this affects you,” she replied. “And since I can wager a bet that you’re too stubborn to go to therapy, I have to assume that at some point you’re going to crack. I don’t know you, but I’m guessing that you don’t deserve that.” 

“I don’t need some kind of quack telling me how broken I am,” he scoffed. 

“Yeah, you just need one to help out a poor boy who’s been to hell and back.” 

Hopper pushed on the gas pedal a little harder than Jen expected, and she sat up straighter. He squeezed the steering wheel and let off the gas. “I’m going with you,” he said with a low voice. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into."

“Do you really think I’d do something stupid?” 

“I don’t know you,” he replied, his pitch rising again. “For all I know you will.” He stretched his arm across the wheel in a more comfortable position. The rest of Hawkins’ busier streets started to come into view. “Besides, I can’t let some out-of-towner do my job for me,” he added with a small smirk. 

Jen locked eyes with Hopper before he looked back at the road to make a turn for his lakeside trailer again. She grinned. “Since I’m not going to talk you out of it, I guess I have no choice.” 

There was a beat of silence between them. Jen could feel the rumble of the engine in her chest. 

Hopper groaned a little, as if he was weighing something in his mind. "Dr. Owens has been doing these _sessions_ with Will to find out what he saw and help him get over some of his nightmares from it. We’ve got scars. He's just a kid, though. It's harder to expect a kid to just deal with the stress. I know a little somethin' about these post-traumatic situations… I can deal with it again if I have to." 

"What do you mean?" Jen asked.

Hopper sighed. "I mean that the Upside Down isn't the only horror out there, y'know?" He locked eyes with her as the truck slowed to a stop in front of the trailer. "You have to promise me that if you're about to get wrangled into this that you'll listen to me. Otherwise, I'll send your ass out of this county and let you be someone else's problem." 

Jen's eyes danced as they followed Hopper's. Perhaps she didn't know what she was getting herself into. Still, she whispered back "I promise" with a soft smile. Guilt shot through her nerves as she considered running. She was terrified to meet whatever this monster was, but she didn't come all this way to waste their time or hers. 

A series of beeps from the radio on the dashboard interrupted them. Jen and Hopper listened intently to the Morse code: a short signal; two long signals and a short one; again; three long ones. _Eggo._

Hopper smiled and he shook his head. He picked up the corded receiver and sent back his response in Morse code: _OK_. 

Inside the trailer, Jen picked up some of Hopper’s remaining trash while he disappeared in the back to use the restroom. She had pulled the large trash bag from the bin and was tying it when Hopper stepped into the living room and smirked. 

“You don’t have to pick up around here, I know it’s a mess.”

“I needed something to do with my hands,” Jen replied softly. 

“You alright?” 

She tied the knot tightly, yanking on the elastic of the bag. “I’m fine,” she said, letting it rest against the counter. “You get kinda blinded during the height of a story, when you think you have something. It feels exhilarating. That’s how I felt. But now I could be chasing a real thing and not just a headline. It’s a little overwhelming.” 

“If uh… If you want to bail,” he said, his voice fading to nothing. He was trying to find a way to comfort a stranger in a way that seemed sincere, but he was at a loss. 

She returned a half-smile to the chief and waved dismissively at him. “I came all the way out here, so I can’t wuss out now.”

Hopper stepped closer to Jen and picked up the trash bag, placing one hand on her shoulder before stepping away to toss it outside. It was a weak attempt at comfort, but she appreciated it. 

“Who are the Eggos for?” she asked when he reappeared. 

Hopper looked suddenly uncomfortable. “That’s complicated.” 

“On-again off-again hungry girlfriend?”

He smirked. “Different kind of complicated.” 

“Another part of the story you can’t tell me yet?” 

“Yeah, if I do at all.” For once he didn't say it with a hint of a tease or warning. She knew he was being honest, but she secretly hoped one day he'd stop holding back. 

Jen shrugged. “Well, I think I’ve probed you enough for one day. We can save it for another breakfast.” She walked out of the door, and he followed her. 

“ _Another_ breakfast?” he echoed from the porch. 

“You plan on stalking me still?” she asked.

“You plan on staying in my town?” 

“I suppose I have to.” She inserted her key into her car door and looked up at him. Hopper was smirking.

“Don’t sound so willing,” he said with a chuckle.

“It doesn’t sound like such a bad thing anymore," she replied with a grin. 

“Pancakes again?" 

"Same time." 

"I'll see ya there, partner," he replied with a tip of his hat.

Jen was finding it easier to navigate Hawkins on her drive back from the trailer. As downtown came into view, she pulled off at the sign for the public library and stepped inside. She gripped her leather bag close to her body and took in the smell of worn books and leather. She loved the smell. 

She stepped up to the reference desk in the center of the room. A perky brunette with large glasses and teased bangs was smiling up at the reporter. "Welcome!" she chirped. "How may I help you?" 

"Do you have any microfilms?" Jen asked.

"Of course." The librarian stood up—long legs extending out of a black pencil skirt—and motioned for Jen to follow her with two fingers. "Right this way!" As they passed an uneven library stack, the woman looked back over her shoulder. "Researching anything fun?" 

"Strange phenomena. You know, aliens, curses, that sort of thing."

"In Hawkins? Good luck."

Jen chuckled. "I'm just on the road finding odd stories where I can."

The two stopped in front of a row of microform readers. "Sounds like you've got quite the story to tell," the librarian replied. 

"I sure hope so," Jen said, eyeing the machines. "Thank you for your help."

"It's my pleasure, ma'am! Come by my desk if you need anything else.” 

The librarian exited the room, leaving Jen all alone. She set her bag down by a machine and thumbed through the collection of microfilms. A case of them was marked for 1970 to 1980. She played with the dials focusing on hundreds of headlines. She had probably been there for close to two hours, swapping out film after film to find anything about the lab—anything Hopper or Dr. Owens might have been hiding. 

Just as her eyes began to cross, she stumbled across a small piece written about a woman named Terry Ives: “Terry Ives Suing”. Underneath was the tagline: “They took my daughter”. 

Jen retracted her hand from the analog dial and read a line that immediately stuck out to her: 

> “Terry Ives filed a lawsuit against research scientist Dr. Martin Brenner and his staff for damages, alleging physical abuse, sleep deprivation, and the kidnapping of her only daughter.”

_Dr. Brenner?_ she thought. Where had she heard that name before? It wasn’t until the article referenced the Hawkins National Laboratory that she realized it was a name Dr. Owens had dropped rather casually just a few hours before. 

She felt a tickle and nervously cleared her throat before leaning away from the microfilm machine. Jen’s eyes floated to the ceiling while she thought about how tense Hopper had been at the lab; he couldn’t even get into the cab of his Chevy without assuming someone might have bugged it. Was that because of the Dr. Brenner, too? If this doctor had stolen Ives’ child, what’s to say he wasn’t responsible for Will going missing? She hoped more pancakes would persuade Hopper to tell her more in the morning. Or maybe a pack of Eggos.


End file.
